The pencil
by The Rahkshi Writer
Summary: I can shatter mountains, but how can this insignificant twig break empires?


'_The pen is mightier than the sword' Edward Buwler-Lytton_

* * *

It's lying there on the stone table, roughly hewn and marked by the continual chipping of my staff-edge. On my roughly carved table, it lies, unassuming and harmless. A cunning facade indeed. My hand shakes as I clutch my staff close, as if it can protect me from the truths that are staring me in the face. That I am nothing. No, this can't be! I am the Rahkshi Guhrak, the second son of Terridax, the analyst, who sees every weakness and the ways to exploit it. I am the patient hunter, ready to wait forever for the perfect opportunity to strike. I always succeed... but, oh Mata Nui, I failed...

_I stepped closer to the cornered Matoran, Takua and Jaller, Panrahk and I on either side of Lehrak. It was a simple, but brilliant, plan. We had trapped the fools atop the temple's central podium, and there it would have ended, had the Toa not interfered. Still, it did not matter. We had defeated them with ease before, and yet they refused to run! But it didn't matter. I could see the weakness in their unity, the natural divisions between them. Between me and Panrahk, we would shatter it, exploiting those weaknesses, as Lehrak opened all the bitter wounds and hurt pride that would be our way into their metaphorical fortress. And so we did what we knew best, crashing into their pathetic unity... but it refused to yield under our attack! Oh Mata Nui, we couldn't pass their shield! I should have known then that we were finished. We could not compete; we should have turned and run, to regroup! But no, we allowed the air-headed idiot and their hot-headed leader, who had somehow been cured of my brother's poisons, to seal us away in a glass tomb. Well, except me. Having suspected the eventuality, when the twister came, I 'jumped ship' as it were, leaving my armour behind me. I slithered away, helpless once again. It hurt me. The rough ground burned me; as I fled for the shadows once again._

And it showed me what I was, in reality. A slug. A useless, pathetic slug. I was nothing without the armour, the corpse of a brother, or maybe sister? I witnessed the entire shocking battle, and as my brothers were defeated by the once helpless Takua, transformed into a Toa of Light. Him? What was so special about him? And I fled, fearing this hideous brightness, but fearing my father's retribution more. And it was bizarre, but when I was at my most vulnerable, at my most wretched, my true shadow revealed, that I saw the light. I looked upon the treatment of my brothers, and felt great rage, but I also saw the tender grief of the other side at the death of Jaller, the Matoran. I too had witnessed his noble death, and at first it seemed foolish. But I remembered his last moments too, and his words, and realised that there was something I would never know: love. Kindness, caring. Whatever you wish to call it, I knew that I would never experience that, and my cause suddenly seemed irrelevant. At first, it frightened me, and I banished it, but my thoughts seemed to have gained my powers, winning me over by attacking my weakest points-my rapidly collapsing faith in my master, and my growing sentiment (sentiment!) for the other side. It even found my fears about my powers.

In time, I became a Shadow Kraata, and discovered a most useful ability: That my corrupted masks brought beings under _my _jurisdiction, not my master's. So I took a Rahi as my steed and guard, and escaped to Metru Nui, where I penetrated the site of my master's great battle with the Shadowed One and the meddlesome Vakama, where I knew I would find the bodies of my slain brothers and sisters, cousin too. It wasn't too much trouble to scavenge enough intact armour to build myself a body. A jumbled mess it may have been, but it could move, and I used this to go in search of a better suit. Of course, during this time I had no Rahkshi Powers. The scavenged body was useless in that regard. So once again I was useless.

But the object on the table can't be stripped of its power so easily, can it! Why don't I just destroy it, like I destroy rocks? My powers would tear it apart in moments. But this thing, this _stick_, can rally Toa to destroy my brothers and sisters, even tell them how best to do it! And it transfixes me with fear, as it strips away my shell to reveal my soul, like peeling away my armour to reveal the slug within. To think some would willingly channel their soul into the page through this thing? I would never do such a thing, but it gives me no choice. It shows me my fears, my hopes, my dreams... things a Rahkshi shouldn't have. But I am a Rahkshi disillusioned. So I have them, cherish them, prize them. And still it's sitting there.

I can destroy mountains now. My power is extraordinary, having lived so much longer than the average Rahkshi. I can shatter mountains now. But this small, insignificant thing, from the moment it is created, can topple leaders and empires, make armies turn tail and flee or give them the keys to victory. It can inspire, it can depress, and it can fill you with joy, terror or sadness. It can thrill you, bore you, and educate you. And while I may be able to destroy, this deceptive fiend can restore the damage done, should the writer so choose. I'm trembling now, shaking, like I am disintegrating. I must destroy it now! Traitorous thoughts enter my head as I do, but I thrust them aside in my quest to destroy it! The shaking's getting worse, it's spreading, but the offending object? Not a tremor! Why, oh why won't it leave me be! It cannot be mightier than me! I am unchallengeable! But then why can't I bring down the Brotherhood, even if I do work up the nerve? Perhaps... perhaps there are some things that cannot be broken by brute force. It requires brains, brains like mine... otherwise, how am I different from my late, and incredibly thick, brother, Panrahk? But I lack the proper tool to channel this newfound power. A staff cannot channel imagination. Or do I? My eyes wander to the offending object, the target of my tirade. Except now I see it in a new light. As potentially the greatest weapon I could ever possess. My key to victory against the Makuta who had abused me. For I would give the Toa, the Matoran, everyone, the gift of hope. But why stop there? I could forgo my past forever, and bring unity and strength where before I had sought to divide and weaken. Yes! I would tell the tales of heroes who had beaten the Makuta, who triumphed against adversity and prejudice, and, from this cave and this roughly hewn desk, build the foundations for a world free of the evils of the Makuta and others, and a second chance for _everyone_. Snatching up the pencil, I began to write. And the first words I wrote forged my new identity. I was Guhrak no longer. From now on, I was

_The Rahkshi Writer__

* * *

_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bionicle, but this particular Guhrak is mine. He's my avatar, have a look and see on my profile page.**

**Okay, so that was something I've wante to write for a while, just for fun. Nothing to read into that, I just came up with it a while ago and thought 'why not?'. That, and I wanted to say that my stories will be on temporary hiatus next week, and probably this week as well, due to real life. Don't worry, I'll still be around, just too busy to actually write anything. ;)**

**And on a completely random note that's been bugging me for a while, how do you imagine the characters to sound in my stories? You know, the OCs. When you read their lines, how do they sound to you? Who do they sound like? Let me know.**


End file.
